My articles emerge depending on what ever tickles my fancy; hope you enjoy the ride. It started several years ago when one of my op-ed pieces to the Houston Chronicle got butchered; been blogging ever since.

Sunday, April 30, 2006

It was an important weekend here in our little corner of the world. ( a vision of Tevya speaking near the beginning of Fiddler on the Roof should be inserted) We had learned earlier in the month that our local Stake President, Richard Page, was being released from his calling along with his two councilors. Elder Paul Koelliker, a General Authority and member of the Quorum of the Seventy was to call the new Stake President at conference this weekend.

I attended the Saturday afternoon session and was listening as Elder Koelliker was warning about how the evil spirit was attempting to invade our homes through any crack or crevice. “Ugly things on television…”, he was explaining that we should avoid stopping on them, even for a moment, as we surfed the channels, “…get even uglier the longer you watch.”

Now, I know he was warning us about demeaning programs that offend the spirit with foul language and pornography; all the same an unrelated thought came to me. I was tempted to tap the fellow to my right to share it as a broad smile crept over me; I resisted the moment, respecting the right of the audience to hear the chosen speaker. I thought to myself, “Wow, he must have watched the Astro’s game this afternoon and seen the 4th inning; that was ugly!” Andy Pettitte had gotten the first man out, walked the next two, given up a double, attempted to throw out a guy at first after a great bunt only to have the ball end up in right field which let him get to second, then let him steal third and score on a wild pitch. It doesn’t get much uglier than that as the Astros choked out a loss.

Our Home Teacher, Bricks Corbin, came by this afternoon with a spiritual message and asked how we were doing as a family. I happened to look down at a piece of chewed plastic that was on the table while we were reviewing the events that took place at conference; a pale orange letter “A”, the kind that we have for our four year old grandson to play with on the refrigerator. We’ve been baby sitting this week and the house looks like a disaster area, in other words, pretty much normal. I guess our 8 month old granddaughter had been teething on it, that or the dog; maybe both.

I held the "edge challenged" letter for a moment and realized that it reminded me of that wax, the kind you get around Halloween. It would come in the shape of a pan flute; but nobody bought it to play music on, it was for chewing. The orange wax had almost an invisible taste that made you chew for hours on end. At some point in time you’d figure out that there wasn’t any taste left at all; but not before your jaw was sore from all that chewing.

Bricks was reminded of the little wax soda bottles that had colored sugar water. They came in green, yellow, orange and red; maybe another color, it’s been a long while. We all thought those were neat to chew on too.

We did find out that Richard Page had been called to serve the Church as some kind of legal council over in Moscow, Russia. That was interesting to hear as Elder Koelliker read the letter from President of the Church and signed by Gordon B. Hinckley and the entire Quorum of the Twelve.

In case I forgot to mention it, we did receive council to continue to pray daily, to continue to read the scriptures, to hold family home evening and to attend the temple. It seems that nothing changes, what was true before is still true.

During the Sunday session the adult choir was joined by a group of children to sing one of my favorite Primary songs, “A Child’s Prayer”. The Spirit is strong when offered up in song. I’ve linked to a simple version of this song via the title bar.

I’ve noticed, and it would appear to be true, that certain hymns and children’s songs that I enjoy the most are the ones that I am unable to sing; my voice leaves me as tears choke off my attempts to utter them. The same happened as we sang the closing hymn, “I need thee every hour”.

I’m reminded of the scene in The Sound of Music as the Captain is on stage attempting to sing, “Edelweiss”. He is only able to get a few lines into the song before his emotions take over, his voice evaporating as the Austria that he loves is also evaporating with the onset of German occupation. Maria and the rest of the audience bolster him by joining in to finish the song.

At one time we had a mother and daughter, Marylyn and Cassidy Dixon, in our Ward who could sing like song birds. Often times they would be unable to finish a song, at least not without some tears in the middle followed by the piano accompanist doing a solo while they recovered. There was always a silent bet in my mind whenever they would start to sing one of those powerfully spiritual hymns; something along the lines of, “When will their emotions make it impossible to continue?”, and wait to see if I was right based on how my own emotions were affected by their music.

When listening to a wonderfully given talk, one that is accompanied by the Spirit, the same emotions take over and I find myself unable to hold back my tears. The words spoken may not be the most important part of the listening process as that portion that is within me recognizes the Spirit and the truths which are given at that time. I have been given opportunities to hear the Spirit this weekend; for that I am grateful.

Wednesday, April 26, 2006

I got a computer generated comment from some jerk advertising his services this morning. I suppose at first it annoyed me; still does to some degree. I had planned to click on the box that would automatically generate a word verification in the comment section the next time some jerk like Dwain dropped by so thanks are in order for his reminding me to get it done. Thanks Dwain, at dwainandres73318380 , you truly are a jerk. No, I don’t want a phony college degree; but I’ll keep you in mind should I ever run out of toilet paper.

Wednesday, April 19, 2006

I made keys at one of my local car dealerships this afternoon; a two year old Ford F-150 off road pick up truck. It seems that the driver over extended his abilities and rolled it. Once that happened he decided that it wasn’t worth what he’d agreed to pay for it so he quit paying the monthly notes and just left it at the bone yard.

While I was waiting for the keys to be programmed I couldn’t help but notice the car parked next to it; the one with the bullet holes in it. It had signs taped to all the windows, “Do Not Touch - U. S. Marshall’s Investigation”. There was a familiar foul stench emanating from within. All the windows had bullet holes while the driver’s side window was shot out completely. I could see the blood stains and was told that the driver had been killed. He’d stolen the vehicle and, upon being pursued by the police in Louisiana, had shot it out rather than give up. I counted close to 40 bullet holes; wondering how many had hit the mark. I wish I had my digital camera with me; the first thing that came to mind was the last scene from Bonnie and Clyde.

When I was a very young police officer working evening shift patrol downtown one of the more demented patrolmen, I think that would cover his personality, would take his fancy 35mm camera around to all the crime scenes. He would take pictures on slide film so that he could slip them in with his vacation pictures when friends and family came over. “This one is the kids jumping in the pool at the Holiday Inn, this next one is a drug dealer with his half his head shot off floating in Buffalo Bayou.” He eventually got removed from the force for some rather serious infractions, imagine that.

I made keys for a wholesale car dealer several years ago; an old Suburban that he’d bought at a police auction. All the carpet, headliner fabric and even the seats had been removed leaving the inside down to bare metal. Even with all that removed my nose could pick up on the smell, a particularly unpleasant odor left when the human body starts to decompose. I bet he had a hard time selling it, even with a box of Citrus Glade to cover the lingering odors.

The first time I ever ran across a DOA in a car was back in 1972 when I was a rookie police officer. It was a Monday afternoon on evening shift around 3 or 4pm; about this time of year because it was already starting to get pretty warm. We got dispatched to the parking lot of a large grocery store off the Gulf Freeway and were met by the store manager. The manager was upset because there was an ambulance parked with its flashing lights; not good for bringing customers in; that and the fact that there was a dead woman in one of the cars, a former customer at that.

We talked to one of the sackers who explained that he thought it a little strange that the car had been parked in the same place all weekend. He remembered having loaded the old woman’s groceries on Friday evening and never gave it another thought. The car windows were rolled up; even so, the smell was enough to gag a vulture. When the medical examiner gave permission for the body to be removed we were asked to help load the body into the bag. I wasn’t too keen on the idea; but my senior partner had volunteered my services.

It had been an especially warm weekend and the heat had cooked the woman. I put the disposable gloves on and began to lift the woman’s arm. I learned an important lesson that day; over cooked meat does not stick to the bones. It took quite a bit of effort to complete that assignment and when we left the odor had permeated my police uniform. It took several times going through the wash to make that shirt useable again; but when you only have 4 city issued shirts, well, you make do.

I suppose I need to bring this to a close, eventually. Jim Reed, the fellow who taught me how to be a locksmith, would show me the art of impressioning a trunk key. He’d prepare the key, wiggle it in the lock to collect some marks, file those marks and repeat the process until the key turned in the lock. He’d turn the key enough to make sure that the lock would work, letting the truck deck spring up half an inch or so before slamming it shut. He didn’t like to let the truck lid open up all the way, “Never know what you might find in there, a dead Mexican named Jose shot full of holes or a bunch of marijuana; no, you never know what you might find.”

I made keys for a Firebird that had been towed to a storage lot after being abandoned on the side of a freeway. Six months later the storage lot owner filed for a lien title so he could sell it when the original owner abandoned it. When I’d made the ignition key he wanted to hear the motor run. It turned over strong but never would start. I popped the hood for him, pulling the release under the dash board so he could see if it was getting any gas. He lifted the hood and had me crank it over again while taking the cover off the air intake.

“You’re not gonna’ believe this! The air filter has been packed with drugs in plastic bags; it’s not getting any air!” The car started right up as soon as the drugs were removed from on top of the carburetor. At least it wasn’t a dead Mexican named Juan.

Edited June 26, 2006This article was published in the May issue of ALOA's Keynotes.

Sunday, April 16, 2006

I started to write this a couple of days ago but “the cares of the world”, earning a living, took me away before I could post it. I since have had a chance to read other talks and had a chance to think about what I wanted to share with you or how to better present my thoughts. I will borrow the opening lines from a talk given by Boyd K. Packer, “The Mediator”, which he gave in May of 1977. “What I shall say I could say much better if we were alone, just the two of us. It would be easier also if we had come to know one another, and had that kind of trust which makes it possible to talk of serious, even sacred things.If we were that close, because of the nature of what I shall say, I would study you carefully as I spoke. If there should be the slightest disinterest or distraction, the subject would quickly be changed to more ordinary things.”I thought to myself, “Wow, what a powerful way to express the serious nature of everything that follows.” In that regard I paid full attention to every word, every intended utterance as the talk he gave proceeded. To this end I extend the same preamble, the same sincerity of purpose.

This weekend the Christian world celebrates the most important of all days in human history, the resurrection of our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. I’m not sure that “celebrate” is a strong enough word, although it comes closest to my acknowledgement and understanding of the gift which is least understood, that gift which God gave to all mankind to take us safely past death. I wonder how many of us contemplate the Jewish Passover and Easter as one and the same celebration. I read a talk given by Howard W. Hunter, “Christ – Our Passover” back in 1985 and published in the Ensign. I’ve linked to the website where the entire talk may be found in the title bar.

“The Passover in the Old Testament and Easter in the New Testament testify of the great gift God has given and of the sacrifice that was involved in its bestowal. Both of these great religious commemorations declare that death would “pass over” us and could have no permanent power upon us, and that the grave would have no victory.”“And they shall take of the blood ( of a lamb without blemish ), and strike it on the two side posts and on the upper door post of the houses, wherein they shall eat it.”{. . .}

“And it shall come to pass, when your children shall say unto you, What mean ye by this service?

“That ye shall say, It is the sacrifice of the Lord’s passover, who passed over the houses of the children of Israel in Egypt.” (Ex. 12:7–8, 11, 26–27.)Well, the time has now come; we all should be asking, “What mean ye by this service?” and yet many are not interested, or have placed this issue on the back burner in pursuit of the more temporal aspects of life.

“After the Israelites had escaped from Pharaoh’s grasp and death came to the firstborn of the Egyptians, the Israelites eventually crossed over Jordan. It is recorded that “the children of Israel encamped in Gilgal, and kept the passover on the fourteenth day of the month at even in the plains of Jericho.” (Josh. 5:10.) And so it was with Jewish families year after year thereafter, including the family of Joseph and Mary and the young boy, Jesus.”“When Jesus was but twelve years old, he went to Jerusalem with his parents to take part in the Passover celebration. Luke’s account tells us that Jesus remained behind in the temple after his parents had departed for home. They returned with fear and anxiety to find him among the doctors of the law “both hearing them, and asking them questions.” (Luke 2:46.) Luke records that all who “heard him were astonished at his understanding and answers.” (Luke 2:47.)”“Could it have been possible that Jesus was teaching these older and formally trained men about the meaning of the Passover just celebrated? Would it have surprised them that one so young and seemingly inexperienced would have known so much about the meaning of that fateful night in Egypt so long ago and so far away? Would they have been amazed at his knowledge of the lamb and the blood and the firstborn and the sacrifice? The scriptures are silent on such questions.”

I would remind you of the opening lines that I “borrowed” (stole) from Boyd K. Packer’s talk; blink you eyes and regain full focus as you read that last paragraph over again. That which we call the Meridian of times is the joining of the Old and the New Testaments, the joining of the two sacred events, the Passover and what we now call Easter; that being the events leading up to the Last Supper, the suffering at Gethsemane, the crucifixion and the resurrection of Jesus Christ.

“Finally, preparations for the Passover meal were complete, in keeping with nearly fifteen hundred years of tradition. Jesus sat down with his disciples and, after the eating of the sacrificial lamb and of the bread and wine of this ancient feast, he taught them a newer and holier meaning of that ancient blessing from God.He took one of the flat, round loaves of unleavened bread, said the blessing over it, and broke it into pieces that he distributed to the Apostles, saying: “This is my body which is given for you: this do in remembrance of me.” (Luke 22:19.)As the cup was being poured, he took it and, giving thanks, invited them to drink of it, saying, “This cup is the new testament in my blood, which is shed for you.” (Luke 22:20.) Paul said of it: “For as often as ye eat this bread, and drink this cup, ye do shew the Lord’s death till he come.” (1 Cor. 11:26.)”{. . .}

“In this simple but impressive manner the Savior instituted the ordinance now known as the sacrament of the Lord’s Supper. With the suffering of Gethsemane, the sacrifice of Calvary, and the resurrection from a garden tomb, Jesus fulfilled the ancient law and ushered in a new dispensation based on a higher, holier understanding of the law of sacrifice. No more would men be required to offer the firstborn lamb from their flock, because the Firstborn of God had come to offer himself as an “infinite and eternal sacrifice.””

I would encourage you to ponder these thoughts as to their relevance in your individual lives. I started by “borrowing” directly from Boyd K. Packer, his words having the necessary strength to gain my attention. I will close in similar fashion by leaving you with Howard W. Hunter’s closing remarks; my own testimony being added to his.

“At this Easter season, I bear testimony of the Firstborn of God, who made that sacrifice, who has “borne our griefs, and carried our sorrows,” who “was wounded for our transgressions” and “was bruised for our iniquities.” (Isa. 53:4–5.) Of the divine nature of this Redeemer and Savior of all mankind I testify, in his name, Jesus Christ, amen.”

Saturday, April 15, 2006

I’m posting this on my blog in the hope of extending my normal email area of influence; in other words, this is for the two or three who stop by and read my articles.

Important Edit: April 16th

I have found that the information I posted is one of those "Urban Legends", a hoax. My thanks to Greg, Rhymes with Right, for pointing this out to me. I would have pulled this and tossed it in the digital file 13; except for one thing, by reading this information it just might cause one or two folks to pay closer attention to traffic, hazards that are out there and that might be enough to keep them out of harms way. With that in mind, disregard sending this on to your email connections, your friends and family.

“The following is from an email that I have forwarded to all of the CFSA sports commissioners to pass through the sports association. I am sending it to you all in hopes that you will let others that you know. Vince Smith is the President of the Cy Fair Sports Association and a veteran police officer with the HPD gang violence task force.

Please copy this and send it to all your email friends. ( disregard this line, see edit above )

Last Friday, Vince Smith told me that the HPD gang task force that he is a part of has determined that a local gang has started a deadly ritual for initiation into their gang.

Here is how it works...... Between the hours of 10 PM and Midnight, prospective members drive around in a car with the headlights off. When a passing motorist flashes his lights at them to let them know (as many of has have done), they use this as the method of tagging the car and they then attack the car, shooting and killing all occupants. He said that this has happened 3 times in the Houston area.”

I got a call from a young fellow yesterday morning who said somebody had taken the keys to his 1995 Chevy S-10 truck. The locksmith from the night before didn’t know how to do the job since the ignition switch and steering column had come out of a junk yard and didn’t match the door key. With that in mind I told him I could do the job and we agreed upon a price knowing that I would have to pick the ignition to the start position, remove it and fit the key.

“I’ll call you back after the wrecker brings the truck to my business; it’s across town.” He was afraid that the person who’d taken his keys would take the truck and so he hired a wrecker to haul it away as a precaution. I figured it wouldn’t be much trouble to pull the spring cover cap, toss the old combination and set it up on yet a different key since I’d have out of the column anyway.

The day went by and I had plenty to do; he never called back, at least not until the sun was going down and I told him it would have to wait until the next day. I wasn’t about to start on it in the dark.

He called this morning and explained that he’d been by the local GMC dealership parts counter, purchased a new ignition switch and they’d already put it together for him with a completely different key so that the old key wouldn’t be able to start the truck. “I got it all ready for you to work on.”

Jim Reed, the fellow who taught me to be a locksmith, had a sign in his shop to explain his prices. I wish I had a copy of it to jog my memory. It went something like this:

Basic Locksmith Work - $ 10If you watch - $ 15If you talk while I’m working - $ 20If you worked on it first- $ 50

I drove the short distance to his location, one of those quick lube and oil change places. His truck was parked in the back with the hood up as I pulled in. I looked inside and sure enough the plastic clam shell pieces had been removed, along with the “Mickey Mouse” ears from the ignition switch. The brand new ignition switch was sitting in the center console.

“I tried to turn the ignition to remove it but it just wouldn’t turn no matter how hard I tried.” I closed my eyes and pictured the sign in Reed’s Key Shop from so many years ago. “I was trying to save some money so you wouldn’t have to come out”

“So, how were you trying to turn the switch?”, a reasonable question since I knew he didn’t have a key.

“I used that big screw driver; I hope it didn’t damage anything.” I took a deep breath and studied the keyway. The first three wafers had been crushed and completely destroyed. I couldn’t get the proper key blank to even go in the lock. “Maybe I shouldn’t have hit it with the hammer?”, he added as I was shaking my head.

I mentioned that the previously agreed price was no longer on the table, that it would cost more since I would have to take the ignition switch out a piece at a time. He was not prepared to pay and so I packed up and got in my truck to leave.

“What am I supposed to do now; you just going to leave me stranded?”, as if it were my fault.

“Call some other locksmith, one who has lots of time to waste; I’m out of here.”

When I was still an apprentice locksmith I would go out on calls as an observer. I remember standing off to the side of a fairly new Mercedes. The owner had locked the keys in the trunk by accident and called to have one of Reed’s locksmiths come out. It couldn’t have been 15 minutes from the time the call came in to the time we arrived. The owner had decided that a pair of scissors might be the perfect lock pick tool as he pounded the tip into the truck lock, missing a couple of times as the scissors dug into the once pristine paint surface surrounding the trunk lock.

You have to wonder what kind of chemical imbalance is triggered in the brain of somebody who’d do that. Maybe that’s one of the differences between men and women. Most women, not all, would have patiently waited for the locksmith to perform his special magic, paid for the service and gone down the road. A few macho men are unable to accept the fact that a stupid lock has prevented them from moving forward as they pick up their club, bow and arrow, shot gun or what ever “precision tool” is handy or within reach as they detonate the C-4 plastic explosives to get into their car. Maybe that sounds like an exaggeration; possibly the part about the C-4, the rest I’m sure have all been used.

I went on a simple lock out many years ago; it was a brand new Cadillac. The woman who owned the car had complete AAA coverage and so it wasn’t going to cost her a penny for my services. When I got there I noticed that something was wrong; all the rubber gasket material around the windows had been chewed up.

“My neighbor has been trying to get in. He’s such a dear; but all he had was a bow saw blade because he lost his Slim Jim.” I had one of my apprentice locksmiths with me that day and he was having trouble containing his laughter. I looked inside the car, observed the cuts on the door key and clipped out a perfect copy. Unfortunately, the “Good Samaritan” had unhooked all the linkage rods on the driver side door and it no longer functioned. Thank goodness the linkage was still working on the passenger side. To top it off, the woman called AAA and wanted to complain that I had destroyed her new car; forgetting all about her neighbor and the bow saw blade. Edited June 1, 2006This article was published in the ALOA magazine, Keynotes, May issue.

Lukas Alpert of the New York Post has written an interesting article which follows the extensive, if not exhaustive efforts of British academia in search of the perfect butt; so much for the old saying, “only in America”. “A team of British academics has developed a mathematical formula to determine just how perfect your posterior is.”

No, I’m not making this up as I go; there actually was a “study” conducted; what better place than a college campus. For those obsessed with perfection in math I’ve linked to the original article which contains the means for computation and comparison of results.

"The perfect female derriere has firmness to the touch and a resilience that prevents undue wobble or bounce, yet looks soft with flawless skin," said Dr. David Holmes, a psychology lecturer at Manchester Metropolitan University devised the formula for measuring one's moons.”

Those planning to major in this field will be glad to know that it requires quite a bit of hands on training, after hours assignments might be hard but satisfying. The list of low level puns is endless; not exactly a bummer of a job.

Wednesday, April 12, 2006

I caught the very end of a movie, the credits rolling across the screen. At the bottom was a banner, “The way movies were meant to be seen, widescreen Wednesday”. That came across as funny; the credits from the last movie continued to roll by, all Chinese characters for some martial arts import. I have no idea if it was rated G or R; who knows what profanity may have been embedded within those funky looking blocks of squiggles.

I think this has something to do with the immigration bill up before congress. All those Chinese are swimming across the Pacific, taking away jobs from Americans, getting free acupuncture at our clinics and putting extra starch in our shirts to make us feel uncomfortable. Don’t even bring up their driving habits; the only folks on the road with both hands on the steering wheel going 3 miles per hour under the posted speed limit, Geeze Louise! These folks have to be in cahoots with the Mexicans; why else would it be called Juan’s tan soup? Egg rolls my Aunt Tilly; those are over cooked burritos. They have the Great Wall, why can’t we build one too?

Monday, April 10, 2006

The other night my business phone rang and the caller ID suggested it was a Spammer. I answered and the young woman, without disclosing her name, asked for my daughter, Bonnie.

“Who is this?”, I asked, not recognizing the voice and wondering why the call had come in on my business phone.

“I’m a good friend of Bonnie’s; are you her husband?” A couple of thoughts came to mind as I started laughing into the mouthpiece. Bonnie is out of town on business, she isn’t married and if this person were, as she claimed to be, “a good friend”; then why didn’t she call Bonnie on her cell phone, and certainly she would have known that I couldn’t have been her husband. I didn’t explain any of this to the caller; laughing uncontrollably as I clicked off.

Bonnie’s birthday is coming up soon and for the right fellow, an engagement ring would definitely be on the list of welcome gifts; serious offers only, return missionaries move to the head of the line. One of my jobs as Bonnie’s dad is to embarrass her in public.

I was watching the George Burns’ movie, Going In Style, about three old guys who've grown tired of simply sitting on a park bench each day wasting away until the grave takes them. They come up with the idea to rob a bank and the movie takes off from there. Over the years I’ve enjoyed the wisdom and humor he supplied.

Last week I enjoyed the 176th General Conference of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints. The President of the Church, Gordon B. Hinckley addressed us on Sunday morning and shared some memories of his service in the Lord’s work. In his mid 90’s he has an interesting mix of wisdom and humor for a man in his position. It struck me that George Burns and Gordon B. Hinckley had similar features; not that anyone would confuse them for twins, just a thought that made the edges of my mouth form a smile. All they would have to do is change the frames on their eye glasses to pull it off; well, get rid of the cigar too. Maybe when we get to be old, approaching that time when we meet face to face with God, the edges wear down a little and we all start to look the same.

Sunday, April 09, 2006

A friend of mine sent me some interesting pictures and I looked up the artist on the internet to see more of his work. Thanks to Steve Sanders for sharing.

“Julian Beever is an English artist who is famous for his art on the pavements of England, France, Germany, USA, Australia and Belgium. Its peculiarity? Beever gives his drawings an anamorphosis view, his images are drawn in such a way which gives them three dimensionality when viewing from the correct angle. It's amazing !!!”

Use the link provided in the title bar to view more of his work. I’m still getting over being sick and have kept my writing down to a minimum.

Thursday, April 06, 2006

You scored as Journalism. You are an aspiring journalist, and you should major in journalism! Like me, you are passionate about writing and expressing yourself, and you want the world to understand your beliefs through writing.

Wednesday, April 05, 2006

I got this from Mover Mike’s Blog and thought it could be expanded upon. Think about the benefit of being able to identify who is sharing the road with you just by a glance at the license plate. It seems to fit quite well with what I just posted a few minutes ago, “Know Your Neighbor”, where you can find out what lurks in the shadows just by putting in your address.

“California is considering "the scarlet letter for drunken drivers" according to the SacBee.A California lawmaker wants to force two-time offenders to attach red license plates with the letters DUI, for "driving under the influence," to their vehicles - a rolling advertisement of their crimes.”

I think it’s an interesting idea, identifying the dangers all around us by placing a specific license plate on a vehicle; but why stop with DUI or DWI? Instead of looking at another bumper sticker, “My Child is an Honor Student at Dweeb Elementary School”, why not have something with a little more pop in it? “My Dad is a convicted Child Molester”, or, “This Vehicle is owned by a convicted Rapist”. The folks going along for the ride will be thrilled as well as they slink down in their seats avoiding eye contact on the way to the shopping mall. If not on the license plate, have the information etched into the rear window; that should make the resale of the vehicle do cartwheels.

“This is no way to ease violators back into society, have them become productive citizens” will be the outcry of the ACLU, the whiners and the compassionate liberal left. It wouldn’t be fair to have the stigma emblazoned on their vehicles any more than it would be fair to have the “Scarlet Letter” embroidered on Demi Moore for having committed adultery in the movie. Why not brand these folks as part of the judicial process? Okay, maybe not brand them; just a huge tattoo prominently identifying their crimes against society. I’ll bet the baseball cap industry would enjoy a healthy spike in sales.

In the event of a conviction the court appointed tattoo artist would be waiting, electric needle in hand as the suspect is led to a sanitary room on the other side of the courtroom. “Okay, pick from the samples there on the wall. We have a special today on Aggravated Sexual Assault of a Juvenile, Aggravated Robbery with Injury and Murder. When you have all three you get your choice of multiple colored borders on the first letter of each word. The cost of this service will be automatically dispersed into your monthly probation fees.”

Sick as this may sound, my guess is the criminal element would find a way to improve their standing in “their society”, something which most of us have no clue about. There is already a whole criminal culture of tattoos and their associated meanings that would scare the bejebers out of most God fearing folks; having the court add official status to such a collection of body art would only add to those credentials.

The folks who are clamoring about the rights of convicted criminals are the same folks who are upset that terrorists are not being tucked in at night down at Gitmo, or that the introduction of chemicals intended to end the life of a convicted Capital Murder suspect might make them feel unnecessary pain in those last few moments while strapped to the gurney. I like the line from Dirty Harry, the one Harry used to explain that he was all broken up about the rights of the suspect, the one who left the young girl to die after having yanked one of her teeth out and sent it to the police to prove that he actually had the girl. “Well I’m all choked up about his rights!”, growling at the judge and prosecutor and glaring at their inability to see how they were protecting evil over good.

Tuesday, April 04, 2006

I read a short blurb of a story on the Fox website about a teacher who had been using a live piece of military ordinance as a paper weight on his desk. I qualified with the 40mm grenade launcher when I was in the Army. It makes a neat sound when it propels the payload down range, “thummphhhh”; hardly what I’d expected the first time I fired it off. The grenade spins as a means of arming the firing pin so that when it hits a solid object it can detonate. The idea of picking up a “bad round”, one that somehow didn’t blow up reminds me of those idiots who light the fuse to set fireworks off and look down the tube of an aerial mortar thinking that the fuse must have gone out. “911 Operator, state the nature of your emergency?”

“A teacher who kept a 40 mm shell on his desk as a paperweight blew off part of his hand when he apparently used the object to try to squash a bug, authorities say. The 5-inch-long shell exploded Monday while Robert Colla teaching 20 to 25 students at an adult education class.”

Having a warped mind, the product of 20 years working the street as a police officer, I will do my best not to jump on this with various lines intended to evoke muffled laughter. “Bugs just get dead with Raid”, “If it had been John Kerry teaching the class he’d have put in for another Purple Heart.”, or other tasteless one liners.

I would like to know why the teacher thought that taking a weapon to school seemed appropriate. Maybe thirty years ago it might have been “kool” to have an old Army grenade on the desk with a sign that read, “Take a number!” attached to the safety pin, or some other inert piece of weaponry; but a piece of recovered ordinance that had never been checked to see if it was live? Maybe he was teaching Darwinian Theory, the survival of the fittest; just a thought.

I read where a Middle School Boy was walking to school the other day in the Indianapolis School District and realized that he’d accidentally taken his Swiss Army Knife along in his pocket. Upon arriving at school he immediately walked to the administrative offices and turned it in for safe keeping. That young man was expelled from school and classified as a trouble maker in spite of the fact that he was an honor student and never had a disciplinary mark on his record. He will now have to attend an alternative school, that place where the undesirable kids are sent, those who are one step away from a life of crime. (linked via title bar)

There used to be a sit-com, Barney Miller, about an office full of detectives. I thought it had some good writers and the show made me laugh. Once they had arrested a young man for having put together an atomic bomb from information gained at the public library. Nobody at the station really believed that it was a bomb, much less one that could blow away half the city as they poked it, shook it and in general discarded common sense. The device was sitting on Captain Miller’s desk when one of the other detectives walked by and casually observed the object, “Hey, where’d you get the atomic bomb?”, as if anyone would have recognized the hidden destructive power inside the interesting device.

What kind of class is adult education anyway? “Tonight I'm going to show how to properly put on a condom, avoid HIV and collect Welfare from as many agencies of government as will hand it out; but first, watch me smash this bug with a dud grenade.”

Sunday, April 02, 2006

I know that many who read my articles click the “close box” at the first hint of anything religious and look for some political blog. There must be a rash of clicking going on now so I’ll wait a moment to see if anyone is left after the lights come back on. Go with me just a little way on this and your efforts will be returned several fold. Think of this as a movie review, one you hadn’t seen yet, may not of heard of because it didn’t have the right title, didn’t have the familiar hype necessary to grab your attention.

This weekend I had a chance to hear some of the finest spiritual talks ever given. These talks had but one purpose, to provide hope to the listener of the truthfulness of the Gospel of Jesus Christ so that he/she might return to Father in Heaven. If this one thought is on the edge of “possible”, that you have a Father in Heaven and that by some slim chance I have information that would make your return possible; then be of good cheer and go with me just a little further.

You are probably familiar with the line, “Repent, Repent and return unto me.”; but did you know that in Hebrew the root of the word Repent is to return or to change direction? If you would have a place in your heart for the possibility that you have a Father in Heaven, one who wants you to succeed in this mortality, one who has provided you with a way to achieve what you may consider to be nearly impossible, and yet something which you would dearly wish to still be possible; then go with me a little further.

Invest 8 hours of your “entertainment time”, call it what you will, and take the time to listen to the talks given during General Conference. They are in the process of being archived at this very moment, the Saturday Morning Session has already been posted. Each session of conference contains 2 hours of information worth much more than any Star Wars, Harry Potter, Titanic or any other top box office movie. It’s a gamble, I know, investing that much time to hear some “Bible Thumpers”, some boring choir music when you could be watching a TEVO generated recoding of the last episode of “24” after a hard day of work; go with me a little further. The link to the archives is in the title bar.

About Me

I am a retired City of Houston Police Officer having served 20 years as a patrol officer. I am currently self employed as an automotive locksmith. I am a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints. I am married to my first and only sweetheart. We met while working at the Astrodome; she was the popcorn girl and I was the soda boy, both working in the back areas during our high school years.
We have 3 grown children and two grand children.